


Where were you...

by TheDandyRascal



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: For the Horde!, World of Warcraft: Legion Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDandyRascal/pseuds/TheDandyRascal
Summary: “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?”----A short series of Horde-centric snapshots of the Battle for the Broken Shore scenario from the Legion expansion launch event.





	1. Orgrimmar

**Author's Note:**

> Tauren Guardian druid.

_“Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?”_

**Orgrimmar**

The city air is hot and dry, a normal midsummer day in the arid desert of Durotar. Deep in the dug-out canyons it’s cooler, but up here on the central plateau it’s stifling. Zeppelins with their brightly painted balloons glitter against the unfathomable blue of the late morning sky as they drift overhead to dock at the loading towers, while long queues of people snake around the building waiting to board. The noise of the city below is lost in the cacophony of travellers. A goblin shouts over engine noise to announce the arrival of the _Thundercaller_ while wind rider keepers whistle and clap to get the attention of their hobbled beasts, the creatures roaring back in irritation as they lounge in the shade of their stable.

The south elevator creaks to a halt and disgorges a dozen people onto the mesa. A large white-furred tauren narrowly avoids a heavily laden cart and easily steps over the guardrail to get onto the footpath, cutting in front of the crowd. He follows a group of young soldiers carrying fur-trimmed armour and cloaks, clearly headed towards the zeppelin that will take them to Northrend, a trip he’s taken many times before. He doesn't miss the bone chilling cold of that frozen wasteland. Despite his fur-covered body, he’s much more comfortable in the warmer climates of Kalimdor’s grasslands. Thinking of Northrend reminds him of the Draenor campaign, and the two years he just spent freezing his ass off in the Frostfall garrison; he shivers involuntarily.  

Just as he reaches the western zeppelin tower, a voice calls out from the crowd behind him. “General Stonespire!”

He pauses in the entrance and glances back over his shoulder. A young orc wearing a grunt’s uniform is running towards him from the lift, waving wildly to get his attention.

“Sir! Wait!”

Rik snorts a terse sigh through his nose and steps aside to let others pass into the stairwell. He can just hear the muted _whump-whump-whump_ of a zeppelin’s propellers echoing down the Valley of Spirits as the _Zephyr_ cruises closer to the city, which means it’s only ten minutes out. He’s got plans to be in Thunder Bluff before afternoon and wanted the simple journey of taking a zeppelin rather than flying himself. It’s been ages since he’s enjoyed the leisurely ride over the Barrens. Even longer since he’s had a break.

“What is it, soldier?” he cranes his neck a little and spots the vibrant purple nose of the airship’s balloon. “I’ve only got a few minutes.”

The grunt is panting from his mad dash but does his best to stand tall in the hulking tauren’s shadow. “Sorry -- sir. The High Overlord sent me to fetch you.” He draws in another lungful of dry air. “The Warchief is calling a war council.”

The irritation over having his plans interrupted disappears and Rik hands the grunt his bags. “Duty calls then. Take these to Miwhana’s Longhouse for me.”

The moment he’s unburdened Rik takes a few quick steps forward before transforming into a massive grey storm crow, and leaves the grunt coughing in a swirl of red dust kicked up from the beating of his powerful wings. He makes haste to Grommash Hold.

 --

The war room is nearly full when Rik arrives. He folds his wings tight against his back as he cuts in through the doorway past a startled guard and lands just beyond the threshold, transforming back to his natural form in a kneeling position. Hardly anyone turns at his rather extravagant entrance; just a handful of guards, including one of the warchief’s shadow hunters who gives him the stink eye. Sober tension fills the room as everyone focuses on the large, rough-hewn table in the middle where some of the Horde’s leaders cluster.

Rik surreptitiously straightens his armor from where it has settled awkwardly after his transition and moves forward to get a better view. A pair of shamans shift aside to let him by and he nods his thanks as he slips in next to a familiar looking female tauren paladin wearing a Sunwalkers tabard. She casts him a disapproving look from the corner of her eye and he frowns back at her.

“What?” She’s nearly as tall as he is, so he doesn’t have to lean down far to whisper.

“Nevermind.” She hisses back. “Pay attention.”

“Attention to what? Care to fill me in on what’s happening?”

She makes a low noise of annoyance and the shield on her back bumps against his arm when she steps away from him. Baffled, Rik cranes his head over the shorter orc in front of him to see the map spread out on the table.

As he leans forward from the crowd, High Overlord Saurfang spots him and gestures impatiently. “General, over here.”

The crowd parts enough to let him through and Rik moves over to stand next to the Warchief, who is leaning over the table with a implacable look on his face. “Apologies for my late arrival. Your messenger caught me at the zeppelin tower. What’s going on?”

Vol’jin’s melodic, smooth voice is grim as he speaks over Saurfang’s gruff response. “Sorry to interrupt ya travels, Gen’ral, but I have need of ya.” He pushes away from the table and stands to his full height. “Da Legion has returned.”


	2. The Great Sea, southwest of the Broken Shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tauren Discipline priest

_“Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?”_

**The Great Sea, southwest of the Broken Shore**

Foamy water sluices across the deck of the _Sea Wolf_ as the swift destroyer cuts through the dark waves, soaking everything it touches. Soldiers shift restlessly in place. They’d left the warm shores of Durotar just mere hours ago, but crowding onto the vessel shoulder to shoulder has made the journey seem much longer. As the sky darkens and the sea grows hungrier the atmosphere falls grim and silent. Everyone onboard knows where they’re heading and that most of them won’t go home. Any soldier with a campaign under their belt can tell you that the landing party rarely lives to tell tales of victory.

Just ahead of the ship flies the _Darkspear’s Might_ , carrying the Banshee Queen and her fiercest Dreadguard Elites and Dark Rangers; the Forsaken are reckless in their undeath but no one can argue with the results. The _Sea Wolf_ and her sister ships the _Draka’s Fury_ and _Stygian Bounty_ carry a mixed company of Thunder Bluff Braves and Orgrimmar Grunts that will make landfall on the Broken Shore and dig a foothold into the land with their blood, sweat, and tears. They are the First Fleet.

Not everyone aboard the _Sea Wolf_ carries sword or axe or shield. Healers stand amongst the soldiers wearing war tabards over their heavy robes and carry satchels of potions at their sides. An army is only as strong as their support – and while the determined faces of the Horde’s battle healers grant the soldiers some measure of reassurance – everyone of them is hoping and praying they have the strength to keep people alive long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

A large wave washes over the bow and soldiers near the front of the ship shout with annoyance. Loxe Winterhoof quickly lifts the hem of her robes but the gesture is futile; she’s already wet up to her knees. Exhaling a sigh through her nose she moves past a sour-faced blood elf shivering in his sodden robes and makes her way through the crowd for a better vantage point. She’s nervous and is looking for something, anything, to distract her. Loxe has seen battle before – most recently on Draenor against the Iron Horde – but never to this scale. She’s more experienced with smaller groups and sends another prayer to An’she that she has the fortitude to pull her weight. Her lack of bulky armour makes it easier to weave through the crowd and she uses polite little nudges of her staff and quick smiles to aid her; soon she’s standing close enough to the ship’s bow that she can see the glowing lamps hanging from the stern of the _Darkspear’s Might_ up high in the darkened sky.

She leans towards a greying bull standing calmly to her left.  “We’re catching up, have they slowed down?”

He nods and points one plate-gauntleted hand towards a blurry, dark shape just over the horizon. “We’re nearing land. They’re waiting for us to catch up.”

Loxe turns her head to catch sight of the other two destroyers trailing slightly behind them, then back over her shoulder towards the command deck. High Chieftain Bloodhoof is immediately noticeable standing tall and huge in his battle armour, with his father’s totem on his back and bright warpaint slashed across his fur. From all the way up here he looks calm and Loxe feels comforted by this. A voice calls from high up in the rigging: the lookout has spotted signals from the airship, and everyone on deck is suddenly on high alert.

“Three lights, one long, two short.” The bull hums and scratches his chin. “They want us to form up.” Off their port side the _Draka’s Fury_ tacks wide as the _Sea Wolf_ changes course and the two destroyers move into flanking position with the _Stygian Bounty_ bringing up the rear.

Loxe swallows hard and widens her stance to keep steady; the decking is wet beneath her hooves but she firmly plants the butt of her staff in a double-handed grip to help her balance. A heavy hand briefly touches her shoulder and she gives the bull next to her a startled look.

He gives her a reassuring smile. “Ancestors watch over you, Seer. The Earthmother will care for us all.”

She reaches up to clasp his hand against her shoulder and smiles back. “May An’she guide you true today, Warbrave.”  

“Waga.” He introduces himself.

“Loxe.” She smiles back.

The bull picks up the huge axe leaning against his leg in one hand and settles his grip on it and Loxe realizes everyone else around her is doing the same. An orc marine glances back and sees her standing amongst them, then gives Loxe a firm nod and hefts her shield high. Her voice is gravelly, but strong. “I’ll do my best to stay with you, priest.”

“My thanks.” Loxe touches the warrior’s back and leans forward. “My name is Loxe.”

The orc looks a little surprised. “You can call me Clari.”

Loxe nods and moves back into position as the call to arms sounds from the rear of the ship. The _Darkspear’s Might_ looms closer in the sky and she can make out the harsh, rocky islands ahead. Lanterns flash again as the airship descends from the cloud cover and moments later an Alliance airship follows. Usually seeing Alliance military vessels makes her nervous, but here and now against the Legion they are united. Knowing they would be making landfall as well gives her hope that someone will succeed here today.

A shout breaks her thoughts and suddenly the ship is an explosion of noise as everyone reacts to the sight ahead: the Alliance airship is listing dangerously in the sky as gouts of sickly green fire appear on the vessel’s forward engine. Flocks of felbats swarm the skies overhead, invisible against the dark clouds except for the fiery bile they launch in attack. The _Darkspear’s Might_ jerks hard to starboard, but not before the Alliance ship careens against its side; had it been a seafaring vessel, it would have been in danger of sinking, but the lighter-than-air ship darts away at a stomach churning angle. Someone gasps, another curses, as dark shapes fall from the sky. “If anyone’ll survive a fall that far, even into water, it’s the Forsaken,” someone behind Loxe says grimly.

“Hold steady!” comes another shout from the command deck, and the destroyer lurches hard to port as a massive infernal meteor explodes into the water just ahead. Everyone struggles to keep their footing and a young orc near the railing cries out when the momentum sends him hurtling overboard.

Loxe reacts on instinct and flings out her hand; the boy is caught by a grip of Light before he disappears into the water. In her rush she yanks him back too hard and he crashes into her arms. Someone manages to catch them both before they fall to the deck but Loxe is gasping for breath from the impact of a heavily-armored orc.

The boy stands and stares up at her with wide, grateful eyes. “You saved my life.”

She just nods and retrieves her staff from the deck. “That’s why I’m here.”

Whatever peace they share is shattered by another shout. “INCOMING!” Suddenly Clari is shoving her down, putting her body and shield into position to protect her as fel begins to rain down from the sky.

The smaller orc’s body weight is enough to send Loxe crashing to her knees but she doesn’t let the flash of pain distract her; she slams one hand down against the deck and thrusts her staff up as a shimmery golden bubble expands to cover the bow of the ship. She spares a quick glance behind her and sees other discipline priests following suit, while spring green grass and bright blossoms flow from a restoration druid standing near the ship’s mast. Soldiers and crew alike take cover under shields and armor while the healers get to work. Loxe’s shield is beginning to fade as her concentration wavers, but it buys enough time for the _Sea Wolf_ to clear through the first wave of felbats and the gunner turrets begin a staccato rhythm of cover fire. Clari helps her back to her feet and Loxe washes a radiance of Light over the soldiers clustered around her. The ship heaves again as the crew begins to tack against the waves and the jagged, black rocks of the Broken Shore loom closer.

The _Darkspear’s Might_ soars overhead with a roar of straining engines and a volley of ranger arrows slam into the cloud of felbats. Dozens of the twisted creatures screech as they fall unceremoniously into the sea while the surviving ones wheel off back towards land. Skies clear, the airship turns wide over the destroyers and aims its prow back towards the struggling Alliance craft.

As the ship drops speed for landfall, Loxe feels a burst of adrenaline coursing through her body and she forgets about her bruised knees, her wet robes, her nerves. Everyone around her is securing their armour and weapons, and moving into position to evacuate the deck. A grizzled looking orc with sergeant’s colours on his pauldrons throws back his head and lets out a war cry, and suddenly the sound is everywhere. Orcs howl and crash their weapons together, tauren stamp their heavy hooves and bellow, and when the _Sea Wolf_ finally gets close enough to shore the Braves and Grunts of the First Fleet crash over the railings like a furious wave. Battle-frenzied soldiers jump into the shallow waves and power up onto the beach to the invigorating sound of a chieftain’s battle horn blaring from the command deck.

Loxe barely manages to avoid getting swept along and casts levitate on herself so she won’t get stuck in the churning water. She sees the restoration druid take flight and wheel around over the landing party, and the other two priests floating slowly over the water to bring up the rear.  Just up the beach, _Draka’s Fury_ disgorges its own payload of soldiers into the shallows while its turret gunners lay down cover fire; beyond them, the _Stygian Bounty_ does the same. The landing party digs into the beach within minutes with little resistance. Spirits are high and determination carries the army further towards the rocky cliffs.

Then a thunderous explosion lights the sky and the Alliance airship tips over, spilling its crew into the water before the massive vessel pinwheels down after them and crashes into the cold, black sea. Hundreds of soldiers have just sunk to their deaths. Loxe lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and murmurs a prayer to An’she. Alliance they were, but lives were still lost.

The piercing sound of metal shrieking against metal cuts through the air and everyone turns to watch as the _Darkspear’s Might_ is hit mid-starboard by a molten hunk of rock. With a wrenching of timbers, the airship’s hull tears in half and plummets into the cliffs below, as the infantry watches in horror down on the beach below.

Someone cries out. “The Banshee Queen has fallen!”


	3. The Broken Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forsaken Affliction warlock

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**The Broken Shore**

A hunched figure in tattered robes scuttles across the uneven ground, occasionally glancing around to watch for foes. Its head and shoulders are obscured by a hooded cowl hanging from a grotesque animal skull, but no one would mistake it for anything but a Forsaken. It uses the butt of a rusty scythe to aid its traverse across the treacherous ground, the blade dark with old blood and ichor that barely covers the purple runes etched into the metal.

It pauses to investigate its surroundings, pushing the bird-skull mask up to reveal a sunken, grey face. The sharpness of his cheekbones and narrow jut of his chin are the only indicators of his former self, and one would have to get very close to tell he’d been a blood elf in life. Now he is only Forsaken.

After a moment’s survey, he seems satisfied with the relative safety of his location surrounded by scrubby brush and rocky outcroppings. He drops the mask back down over his face and grips his scythe double-handed; the runes on it flare and he swipes it sharply through the air, tearing a small slice into the fabric of reality. Inky black smoke pours from the wound hungrily until he thrusts a bony hand into the Twisting Nether and yanks something out in his fist. A dark purple shadow wriggles in his grip and he throws it down against the ground before slashing his scythe back across the Void to seal it. The sound of countless voices whisper at his feet as the shadow coalesces into the familiar hulking shape of his voidwalker.

“Master,” it hisses as its featureless face forms. “Free from the Void, I obey your command.”

“Zag’thang, I have need of you.” The warlock gestures with his scythe towards the seething armies of the Burning Legion far below his rocky hideout. “The Legion has returned to Azeroth.”

The voidwalker drifts forward to survey the land with its glowing, unblinking eyes. “I am honoured to aid my master against our common foe.”

“Excellent.” The warlock’s voice is dry and raspy without much inflection. “Let’s go find the others.”

\--

The dramatic sacrifice of the damaged  _ Darkspear’s Might _ seems like a costly ploy, but the results were without equal. While the infantry pushes further up the beach, Forsaken skulk around the cliff tops and reunite into their units. Under the cover of the dark, raining skies the forces of Undercity converge on their designated rendezvous points to receive orders from their Queen.

Sylvanas Windrunner -- the Dark Lady, the Banshee Queen, the Defier of the Lich King’s yoke -- is perched on the cliff’s edge surveying the battlefield with an impassive stare. Down in the valley to her right is the fiery wreckage of the Horde’s lead airship and flocks of demons scour the remains for survivors and intelligence. A regrettable loss, but it has worked in their favour. Once the hull had been gouged by the  _ Lion’s Oath’ _ s starboard engine during the mid-air collision she had switched tactics; the lighter-than-air Horde zeppelins rely on their speed and agility compared to the lumbering and heavily-armed Alliance crafts, which meant any significant damage would cripple their best defense: maneuverability. Tactically it was smarter to sacrifice the vessel in order to draw attention from the rest of the fleet, and crashing the zeppelin into the cliffs would give the Forsaken forces the element of surprise. Had the vessel been crewed by living creatures, all hands would have been lost. But the Forsaken can endure so much more than their fellows. Most of her crew are now crouched in the shadows behind her, some a little worse for the wear and others missing weapons or armour and soaking wet, but they aren’t her Dreadguard Elite for nothing. Her forces are cunning and near unstoppable.

Jaelyk approaches her with Zag’thang looming behind him, and Sylvanas turns to nod in greeting. He bows deeply. “Dark Lady.”

“Executor Jaelyk. You made it intact. I trust your escape route was successful?”

He gives her an exaggerated nod from beneath his bird-skull mask. “The gateway was sufficient for the evacuation. We were able to bring most of our supplies from the ship as well.”

“Commendable decision. Is your team assembled?”

Jaelyk nods and gestures behind himself to a cadre of shadow priests, warlocks, and Royal Apothecaries. “There are enough of us, my queen. I’m sure the absent ones will turn up sooner or later.”

“Excellent.” She turns back to the battlefield and points towards a crevasse in a jagged canyon glowing with sickly fel energy. “My Shadowstalkers believe the infernals are being summoned from there, and I want it to stop.”

He bows again and gestures with his morbid scythe. “Would you like us to banish or shackle them?”

Sylvanas hums idly and taps her sharp fingernails against the polished wood of her bow. “Use your discretion, Executor. Whatever it takes to disrupt the Burning Legion.”

“As my lady commands.”

\--

Jaelyk takes his team behind enemy lines as the Banshee Queen and her remaining forces reveal themselves to their allies and enemies alike. The Horde’s assault team surges forward up the cliffs under cover from the Dark Rangers and the ferocious Dreadguard bolstering their numbers. To the unintelligent observer a group of unarmoured casters may seem like easy pickings, but those who control dark forces are not to be trifled with; they make it to the canyon with little resistance and most of their supplies intact. 

Crouching above the canyon, he looks down on half a dozen summoners clustered around a roiling pool of fel surrounded by nether-altars. Packs of imps and felhounds roam the narrow space, snapping and snarling at each other as their masters pay them no mind. For all the minions keeping watch, the Forsaken haven’t been noticed yet.

He gestures to Amiliaa and Arlystia, the two shadow priests wearing matching blood-red robes, and they shuffle forward to peer over the edge with him. Wordless he points to two of the summoners and the priests nod; Jaelyk repeats the gesture with his fellow warlocks, assigning everyone a target while their holy priest Grimvayne hovers behind them. Everyone moves into position along the crumbling lip of the canyon and he holds up a bony hand to countdown from five, four, three, two, one.

The moment he fists his hand all havoc breaks loose down below. Malevolent shadows coil around two of the summoners who jerk upright from their altars and immediately dive into the deadly fel pool. The remaining casters shout in alarm as unnatural terror overpowers their minds and they flee in every direction; another trips over her altar and tumbles into the fel with a bloodcurdling scream. Shackles of Void grasp at the demons and banish them back into the cold, hungry Twisting Nether while others succumb to an onslaught of the warlocks’ power.

Zag’thang growls and vibrates behind Jaelyk until he jabs his scythe down into the canyon. “Go, leave none behind.” The voidwalker hisses with satisfaction and drops over the edge to charge a felhound, drawing the attention of the wild imps swarming the walls. Rosvier’s and Mesmere’s minions follow immediately as Rachar summons a succubus to take care of the remaining humanoids below, the creature’s seductive song luring them to their deaths.

In a matter of minutes, the canyon is cleared. Sensing no reinforcements nearby, Jaelyk casts a transport circle on the cliff’s edge and drops down into the canyon with the others close behind with Grimvayne calmly levitating down. He leaves the investigation of the altars to Maleverie, the demonology specialist, and they all fan out to look for anything information that may aid the Horde’s assault. He is leafing through a stack of tomes when Maleverie appears at his side, a sheaf of paper clutched in her bony hand.

“Executor,” her voice is a gravelly whisper from behind the demonic horned mask she wears. “They weren’t summon infernals here. It’s much worse.”

He looks at the illegible scribblings she holds, but his understanding of demonic script has always been more academic than practical. “What is it?”

She points to a series of diagrams scrawled onto a crude map of the islands making up the Broken Shore. “This is a focal site, one of many, for a larger working. I’ve seen these markings before when we looted Hellfire Citadel, these are Gul’dan’s instructions.”

Jaelyk scowls at the mention of the despicable leader of the Shadow Council, warlocks devoted to the Burning Legion. “So that treacherous worm escaped. I only wish we had crushed him when we had the chance on Draenor. Are there more of these maps?” Maleverie nods and hands him one, which Jaelyk tucks into his robes. “I must warn the Dark Lady. Take the others and seek out more of these focal sites. Destroy them immediately.”

Maleverie salutes him and turns back to the others. Jaelyk tugs on the intangible bond between himself and his voidwalker, then thumps the butt of his scythe twice on the ground to activate his transport circle up on the cliffs. He’s already scrabbling over the rocky cliffs when Zag’thang materializes next to him with a haunting sound, and they make haste for the Horde vanguard.

\--

Jaelyk has been running as best as his hunched body allows, tirelessly clambering over the uneven terrain with the endless stamina of the undead. Up here on the plateau the vanguard is spread thin but are still holding their ground against the Legion’s forces. He sees the Banshee Queen up on a hillock surrounded by demons felled by her shadow-imbued arrows, and turns in her direction.

He’s nearly reached her side when a snarling felstalker leaps towards her unguarded flank; Jaelyk throws out his hands and spits guttural words of power, afflicting the creature with agonizing pain. It howls and writhes awkwardly, missing Sylvanas as she dodges quickly to the side; the felstalker crashes to the ground and dies as its flesh bubbles with infection. Zag’thang charges forward to circle the Dark Lady as its master reaches her side, looming menacingly to draw the attention of any other demons nearby. 

Jaelyk salutes her and bows his head.

She returns his salute with a respectful nod. “Impeccable timing, Executor.”

“An honour, my lady.” He digs the wrinkled map from his robes and hands it to her. “I bring dire news.”

She takes the map and studies it with a furrowed brow. “I recognize some of this, but I don’t fully understand demonic.”

“Gul’dan is here.” Jaelyk points his scythe out over the battlefield below the ridge, where the Alliance forces clash with the Legion. “Somewhere. And he’s summoning something big.”

Her voice is chilly when she finally speaks. “If he succeeds, we are all doomed.”


	4. Bladefist Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troll Arcane mage

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**Bladefist Bay**

The docks are bustling with frenetic activity as the Horde prepares its strategic reinforcements. Hours ago the Second Fleet’s ships left their berths in the Bay of Storms to the north, laden with more troops for the offensive. Warchief Vol’jin and his most trusted Darkspear brethren, as well as the former Warchief Thrall -- now Farseer of the Earthen Ring -- with many of Azeroth’s most powerful shamans sail towards the Broken Shores. A contingent of Silvermoon’s Blood Knights and Magisters -- including many sin’dorei who have battled the Legion before -- are set to rendezvous with the main fleet along the way to bolster the ranks. After months of growing distance between the factions of the Horde it’s heartening to see everyone working together again.

Ceartasi emerges from the watchtower and immediately shields her eyes from the bright sun. Her heavy robes are sweltering in Durotar’s late afternoon heat and she wishes for the third time she’d brought a change of clothes with her from Northrend. A stupid thought, in times like these, but it is hard to focus on the seriousness of the situation when one’s been relegated to ‘portal bitch’. She blows out a gusty sigh and shoves her sulky mood aside; it’s stupid to  _ want _ to be part of a battle anyway, and she’s been out of active military service for years. Besides, any idiot with an iota of power can lob a fireball at a demon’s face, and not everyone can open transport portals blind with only rough coordinates for guidance.

Clearly the heat’s getting to her - which is stupid because she  _ grew up _ here -- but spending most of the last decade in the frozen wasteland of Northrend studying magical artifacts can change a troll. She pushes limp braids off her neck and unclasps the heavy outer layer of her robes, draping them over the nearest stack of crates. The thin undershirt she wears is already stuck to her skin from perspiration but she can feel a hint of breeze off the ocean and her head clears. She fans herself for a few moments before picking up the robes, giving them a good hard shake, then shoves them into pocket of liminal space she keeps hanging from her belt. Ceartasi picks up her staff and leaves the shade of the tower to find someone in charge.

Closer to the docks, she walks into organized chaos. Peons stack crates of supplies while kodo-led wagons trundle across the hard-packed dirt, their handlers shouting at anyone in their way. A hastily constructed pen full of hobbled windriders and dreadbats patiently waiting for their riders takes up most of staging area, and the stablemasters eye the swarm of goblin blastmasters warily from across the road. Ceartasi passes through a gaggle of them wearing greasy coveralls and wielding massive wrenches as they work on last minute repairs of their various insane engineering creations. Hip deep in goblins, she feels gigantic in a way she hasn’t for some time as she looms over everyone in sight. A young female goblin in a pair of oversized goggles let out a string of foul curse words as she shocks herself on her creation, then grins maniacally when it whirs to life and a giant rocket turret springs to action at her feet. Ceartasi grips her staff and blinks herself several yards forward in a short-jump teleport, eager to put some distance between herself and the blastmasters.

She skirts around an over-laden supply wagon and spots a couple of other mages leaning against a barricade. The blood elf female stands with her arms crossed and looks bored as she surveys a trio of workers unloading an ammunition cart; she looks vaguely familiar, but Ceartasi has always had trouble telling the difference between some of her fellow Horde brethren. No tusks or tattoos or piercings or elaborate hairstyles… how dull. The goblin sitting on the barricade swinging his legs is definitely familiar though, and his sharp little face twists up into a wide grin when he spots her.

“Eh! Look who it is!” he thumps his patchwork metal staff against the ground and winks. “Ain’t seen you around in awhile, toots.” He bobbles his bushy black eyebrows and looks her up and down. “Nice duds.”

It’s a little uncivilized to be walking around in her damp undershirt and trousers, but it was certainly more comfortable than her fur-lined, enchanted robes. She ignores his crude attempts at flirting and leans on her staff. Despite his often cretinous behaviour, she’s always been a little fond of the theatrical wizard. “McFickledish. Didn’t realize we were so desperate for mages.” 

He scratches at his stubbly beard and gives her what he probably thinks is a winning smile, one that shows off his gold tooth. Ceartasi would eat her staff if McFickledish was the shyster’s real name. “Ouch, toots. I’ve got a feeling somewheres in here,” he dramatically thumps his chest. “You might hurt it.”

She rolls her eyes and turns to nod at the blood elf, introducing herself. “Ceartasi.”

The blood elf lifts one ridiculously long eyebrow and inclines her head in return. “Unusual name for a troll. I am called Nessarie.”

Ceartasi smiles thinly -- she’s spent the better part of 15 years dealing with comments like that, and it’s one of the reasons she worked so hard to curb her native accent -- and shrugs. “Either of you know who’s in charge around here?”

McFickledish jumps in before the Nessarie can make another snide comment and gestures with his chin. “Right there.”

She turns in time to see a familiar pair -- an old orc and troll -- making their way through the crowd. Rundok had been an old man when she was just a child, but somehow he doesn’t look anymore wizened. His slate grey beard is longer, but his broad shoulders and stocky frame haven’t shrunk with age. Striding tall and lanky beside him is Zirazi, the closest Ceartasi had ever had to a parent and her first mentor; she still looks young and powerful, her features too harsh to be beautiful, despite being close to Rundok’s age. A smile quirks around her stubby tusks and she lifts a hand in greeting.

“Tizajinzea, ya made it.” There are only a handful of people that call her by her birth name, and hearing it said in a melodic Zandalari voice gives Ceartasi a brief pang of homesickness. 

She grins back “Heard you two old-timers couldn’t do it on your own.”

Rundok snorts and thumps his staff against the ground. “Kodoshit. I could do this with my eyes closed,” his voice is gruff and deep, one that was made for telling stories and teaching lessons. 

Zirazi sighs and drapes her arm around the orc’s shoulders. “Bu’ why when we can get da younguns to do  all de work?”

McFickledish hops down off the barricade and rubs his hands together briskly. “Any idea when we can get this party started? All them bats over there are makin’ me nervous, like they wanna goblin-sized snack.”

“We wait on word from da fleet, but lemme fill in da details.” And Zirazi begins to draw in the red dirt with the butt of her staff.

  
\--

The task is simple, really. Once the command is given, they have to open a series of transport portals at the supplied coordinates for the remaining reinforcements to use, which will allow them to deploy simultaneously with the arrival of the Second Fleet. It was easier to portal heavy artillery and warbeasts than sail with them, particularly when time was of the essence and transport ships were much too slow to keep pace with destroyers. In theory they could have sent the soldiers via portal instead of ship, but it was too dangerous. It was only these desperate times that saw the… bending of the Kirin Tor’s laws on using portals for large-scale deployment.

Ceartasi is on her way back towards the animal pen when a hand touches her elbow. When she turns Zirazi smiles at her and gives her arm a squeeze.

“It’s good to see you,” she says in their native tongue. “I wish it were for happier circumstances.”

“Me too.” Ceartasi lifts her sweaty hair off the back of her neck. “Been gone so long I forgot how to be hot.”

Zirazi chuckles and offers her a folded bundle of lightweight fabric. “Here. Should help with your spellwork better than your underwear.”

Ceartasi flushes a little and takes the embroidered robe. She can feel the hum of enchantments woven into the fabric. “I was in Coldarra when I got the summons and didn’t think to get different clothes. Do you know how cold it is there?”

“You and your brother have told me enough, I’ve no need to punish these old bones with a visit.” Zizari smiles fondly as Ceartasi pulls the traditional-styled robe on over her clothes, then wriggles out of her damp silk undershirt. “Much better look for a proud daughter of the Darkspear.”

Adjusting the fit of top to make herself decent, Ceartasi nods and jokes. “I was almost desperate enough to ask McFickledish for a spare robe.” 

Zizari lets out a hoot of loud laughter and claps her hands against Ceartasi’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t that be a sight!” She gives the younger woman’s upper arms a brief squeeze before letting her go. “You ready for this?”

“What, making an illegal transport portal large enough for fully armored battle riders and their mounts using only blind coordinates and hoping they don’t end up cut in half or stuck in a rock cliff? Of course I’m ready for this.”

“You’re here because Rundok and I believe in you.” Zizari smiles again. “So don’t be letting the Warchief down, eh?”

Ceartasi thumps her staff against the ground and gives her mentor a tusk-filled grin. “For the Horde. For Darkspear. Fuck the Legion.”

“That’s my girl.”

  
\--

McFickledish joins her at the stable master's tent as riders finish prepping their mounts. There’s a nervous energy to the air as everyone restlessly waits for confirmation of the Second Fleet’s arrival. It’s been half a day since the first ships left port and little information has come back from the Broken Shore. Although slim, there is a chance that the first offensive failed so badly no one is able to return… but she doubts it. 

After he became Warchief, Vol’jin once said _“_ _This world don't give us nothing. It be our lot to suffer... and our duty to fight back. This Horde be our family! We don't always see eye-to-eye. We come to blows before. But when we work together - ah - there's nothing this Horde can't do."_

A horn sounds from the top of the watchtower, drawing everyone’s attention to the Sergeant-at-Arms who cups his hands around his mouth to shout. “The vanguard holds strong! The Second Fleet has landed!”

From across the dusty expanse of the dockyard, she catches Zirazi’s nod and Ceartasi turns to grin widely at her colleague. “You ready to break the law?”

He rubs his hands together and gives her another gold-toothed smile. “Toots, I was born ready for it.”


	5. The Broken Shore, eastern ridge overlooking the Soul Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauren Protection warrior

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**The Broken Shore, eastern ridge overlooking the Soul Ruin**

Most people think warriors are reckless, driven by instinct, fuelled by fury and rage. They’re not always wrong. Warriors are emotional people. 

Embracing strong emotions like anger can let a warrior push their mortal bodies beyond their physical limitations. They can ignore even the most dire wounds until the battle is won through sheer determination, and the rush of conquering a foe can keep them going for  _ hours _ . Their fury is their strength, and you’ve got to be strong to handle the punishment of being tireless fighting machines. 

There are others who come close to the same level of emotion, but only for short periods of time. A skilled shaman can use their deep connection to life and spirit to invoke bloodlust in their comrades, turning the tide of battle as their bodies are made bigger, faster, stronger for a fleeting moment of true elemental frenzy. But this is for rare occasion and exhausting, and only done with the utmost care. Shamans can be very cautious people. Some druids shift their bodies into deadly, ferocious beasts to rend the flesh from an enemy’s bones, to spill their blood, and to use the powerful energy of unbridled rage to keep pushing forward against all odds. But when they shed their animal form, they return to a measure of balance and peace. Druids can be very calm people.

Warriors are never cautious, and certainly never calm. They’re usually the loud, boisterous one in a crowded tavern, goading friends and strangers alike into all and any type of competition. They eat too much, they drink too much, they experience life  _ too much _ for others to tolerate for long. Warriors befriend warriors because no one else has the bloody patience to deal with them. They’re exhausting and exasperating and never know when to quit. They live and love and play and fight so much  _ harder _ than everyone else. That’s the  _ point _ of being a warrior.

In any village you see old earthly shamans and ancient wise druids and venerable monks. Priests and mages and warlocks get better in their elderly years, as with age comes experience and with experience comes power. Hunters learn to pick their battles or just fade into the woods forever. A smart rogue knows an old rogue is a dead rogue, so they change the game into something more manageable. Paladins only have two gears; they either go out in a blaze of martyrdom or stick around to teach the next generation about the Light. 

But you don’t see a lot of old warriors. So they live their lives to the fullest, how ever brief they may be.

\--

War stinks. Mud and blood and guts and vomit and tears and sweat and death… she will never get used to it. She doesn’t really want to either. Because if the smell of war no longer makes her stomach turn, she’s afraid she won’t remember why they’re fighting.

Kithania Ragetotem charges forward and slams her shield into a dreadstalker. She manages to catch the creature off guard and it tumbles to the ground; before it can scramble back to its feet, her axe has swung in a vicious arc and severed its head clean off, and she uses the momentum to gouge a mortal wound into another demon’s side. As it gurgles and clutches its wound, she stomps her hoof against its leg to heave the axe out, splintering its bones in the process. The demon screams in anguish and swipes its poisonous claws towards her, but she’s already moving on to the next target. 

She’s been fighting for hours. The First Fleet landed sometime in the early afternoon, and it’s nearly dark now. Her fur is soaking wet beneath her heavy plate armour, from sea water and sweat and blood -- some of it her own -- and she’s covered in filth. Gore and mud coat her legs and she’s pretty sure there’s bits of brain stuck in amongst the felstalker fur along the edge of her shield. She draws a surge of energy from  _ somewhere _ and uses her powerful legs to leap into a pack of imps, slamming her shield down onto the ground hard enough to cause a shockwave. Stunned, the imps stagger uselessly and die with each swipe of her axe, their bodies crushed beneath her stomping hooves. Kithania grins with feral satisfaction and turns to survey the battlefield.

They’re desperately outnumbered.

And she’s exhausted.

The vanguard gained ground quickly, but has been struggling to hold it. Her comrades fight tirelessly until they can’t go on; if they’re lucky, a healer can get to them before they fall to the Legion’s neverending army of demons. Fewer of them are getting lucky though, and the front lines are getting thinner.

She pauses to catch her breath and fatigue starts to creep into her bones. Stopping is a rookie mistake; if you stop, you might not start again. In battle, a still warrior is a dead warrior. Kithania stamps her feet and clashes the flat of her axe against her shield in a rapid tattoo, and somewhere to her left a comrade howls a battlecry in response. Up on the ridge she spots her High Chieftain tirelessly swinging his massive mace and sending demons crashing with his powerful warstomp; she feels energized by his fury and power, and charges towards a tall, thin portal keeper that’s busy channeling energy into a newly forming transport portal. Maybe if she takes out the keepers, the portals will close and win them a reprieve.

Her furious desire to succeed gives her strength as she runs up the small hill. She scoops up a discarded hand axe and throws it as hard as she can towards the keeper; surprise is on her side and the crude stone axe head splits the demon’s skull like an overripe pumpkin. It crumples to the ground in a heap of filthy robes and spindly limbs as the sickly fel green portal begins to dissipate. The rush of victory is nearly overwhelming and she’s already looking for her next target, pausing only to retrieve the lucky axe from the keeper’s head.  

Reflex saves her life.

As she’s bending over, something squeezes out of the collapsing portal and charges. She catches the movement in her peripheral vision and swings her shield up just in time to intercept a massive sword wielded by a creature nearly double her size. The force of the blow sends her crashing down on one knee and she feels it in her bones; her shield, forged from hardened elementium and ironwood, creaks from the impact. A felguard, wider than a wagon and taller than a totem, steps back enough to take another swing. 

She doesn’t know if she can take another direct hit with her shield. 

Kithania roars and pushes to her feet, immediately dodging to her left to avoid the lumberous overhanded swing of the huge sword. She grips her war-axe tightly and darts in to hack at the back of the demon’s leg, hoping to hamstring it, but the formerly sharp edge of her weapon is now pitted from acidic demon blood and it barely cuts into the dense muscle of the creature’s tree-trunk thigh. She barely scrambles back out of its reach when it swipes horizontally through the air in front of it. She deflects another glancing blow with her shield and the top corner of the metal-framed wood shatters apart. It  _ might _ take one more hit, if she’s lucky. But her luck may have finally run out.

After all, you don’t see a lot of old warriors.

A voice shouts from behind her “Hey tauren, hit the dirt!”

Without a thought she drops to her stomach, ducking under another swing of the sword, and she immediately rolls to her left. Just in time to see the outstretched claws of a heavily-armored wyvern sink into the felguard’s chest and lift the demon off its feet. The beast’s rider whoops and pumps her arm in the air as her mount savages the felguard before dropping it into a nearby ravine.

Kithania is sprawled on her back, gasping for air. Mud is sinking into the joints of her armour, but she doesn’t even care. She lets her head drop back and a flight of battle riders in tight formation soar overhead, wyverns roaring and smoke bombs flashing down into the Legion’s forces. The thunderous cacophony of goblin-made artillery follows shortly afterwards, guided by the spotters smoke; plumes of mud and rock and demons begin to erupt as explosions rock the land.

In battle, a still warrior is a dead warrior. But it doesn’t matter now. The First Fleet dug a foothold into the land with their blood, sweat, and tears. Many of them didn’t survive to tell tales of victory, and most of them will never see home again.

But they  _ held the line _ .

A chieftain’s horn sounds across the battlefield, only to be immediately echoed from further down the ridge. Nearby she hears an orc shout “The Second Fleet has arrived!”


	6. The Broken Shore, the Soul Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauren Protection paladin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore snippets are from the tauren mythology Mists of Dawn, which can be found in Thunder Bluff hanging up in the Archdruid's tent.

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**The Broken Shore, the Soul Ruin**

> _ Before the Age of Memory, the gentle Earthmother breathed upon the golden mists of dawn. Where the amber clouds came to rest, there were endless fields of flowing wheat and barley. This was the basin of her works - the great basket of life and hope. _

 

Sunwalker Galweigh stands out in her unit of Blood Knights. 

She towers over even the tallest, most robust sin’dorei in their gleaming black and red plate, her own gear plain in comparison. Though they all wear the same battle tabard, the paladins of the Horde couldn’t be more disparate. Blood Knights are the backbone of the Silvermoon military and they move as one, train as one, and battle as one. With any distinguishing features hidden beneath their uniform helmets one can barely tell the difference between the next. They are also many in number and an entire regiment sailed from Silvermoon to battle the Legion. 

In comparison the Sunwalkers are a young order and still number few; certainly not enough to field their own unit as many of them remain in Pandaria to aid in rebuilding the land destroyed by Garrosh Hellscream, the Horde’s disgraced former Warchief. Those present are added into Lady Liadrin's forces for the battle. Galweigh glances around the crowded beach and is heartened to see she’s not the only sore thumb sticking out of a band of blood elves.

Once the ships land, the Second Fleet is split in two. Half will go with the Warchief towards the Tomb of Sargeras, a horrifying structure pulsing with sickening green energies, while the other half will bolster the vanguard.  A pang of disappointment curls in Galweigh’s belly because she’s been given front line duties instead of aiding the Warchief, but she’s far from a senior officer in the Horde Army. Vol’jin is taking only the very best with him. She cranes her neck over the head of a small, but fierce looking sin’dorei with a blade nearly as tall as her strapped to her back and manages to catch a glimpse of the Warchief’s inner circle. 

Galweigh rolls her eyes at the sight of the tardy General from this morning, standing with his hands on his hips and an arrogant tilt to his head. What little armour he wears is ostentatious (for a druid, after all paladins are known for their… zealous choice in trappings) and the bear-faced helm propped up against his black horns reminds everyone that yes, he turns into a massive bear. Rationally speaking she knows it’s stupid to be annoyed by him, but she’s still young enough to take some things personally. 

During the Siege of Orgrimmar, when the Darkspear Rebellion’s forces marched on Garrosh’s True Horde, Stonespire had rudely slapped down her tactics in the war council. A minor altercation in the grand scheme of the campaign, but it had stung her pride and taken away a clear opportunity for advancement. Instead he’d taken over, as per usual, and her team had been relegated to breaching the rear gates rather than participating in the frontal assault. Pragmatically, she knew it was stupid to be mad; he was the more experienced tank and his team had been well-chosen. But she’d sort of… idolized him just a little throughout the Pandaria campaign, so his brusque brush-off had bothered her more than it should. His heavy handed attitude rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.

She’s still staring at him when the small retribution paladin next to her jostles her elbow into Galweigh’s side, and when she turns her attention back to the front she sees Lady Liadrin staring impassively back at her.

“Something interesting over there, Sunwalker?”

Heat flushes along her face and neck, thankfully hidden by her fur, and Galweigh straightens to attention. “My apologies, Matriarch. My curiosity got the better of me.”

Liadrin's long auburn eyebrows twitch as her gaze flickers towards Vol’jin and Thrall’s team. “I know some of you don’t see the glory in relieving the vanguard, but I assure you our presence is vital to  _ everyone’s _ survival here. Is that clear?” 

Murmurs of assent and nodding helms answer her, and Liadrin claps her hand against the unit commander’s pauldron. “Be ready to leave the moment you see the transport portals opening. We need the aerial coverage before we can strike.”

The commander salutes her respectfully and bows his head. “On your command, Matriarch.”

“Remember, we are the blades of the Light.”

Galweigh murmurs a prayer to An’she as everyone around her speaks of the Sunwell. 

\--

> _ The Earthmother's eyes shone down upon the lands she had breathed into creation. Her right eye, An'she, gave warmth and light to the land. Her left eye, Mu'sha, gave peace and sleep to the stirring creatures of the dawning. Such was the power of her gaze that the Earthmother closed one dreaming eye for every turning of the sky. Thus, her loving gaze turned day into night for the first dawning of the world. _

 

Transport portals begin to shimmer open and the Second Fleet prepares to split. Suddenly the beach is full of blastmasters and battle riders and Vol’jin’s team takes the left hand fork in the road while units of paladins, shamans, and priests take the right. A formation of batriders wheels high above the island to survey the battleground while another flight engages a swarm of Legion felbats in close combat, darting in and out of the dark clouds overhead. Orcish battle cries from Orgrimmar’s aerial aces are overshadowed by the rumbling throaty roar of their wyverns as they streak overhead to engage targets on land, hurling spotter’s smoke for the blastmasters high on the ridge and dropping their own complement of bombs to disrupt the Legion’s garrisoned forces. 

Galweigh’s unit has been paired with a support team of priests and shamans to escort up to the ridge, and the commander gestures her to the front of the group.

“I want you on point, Sunwalker.” He has to shout over the cracking boom of goblin artillery. “We’ll form up behind you.”

She adjusts the strap on the back of her shield and nods. “Yes’sir!” 

It only makes sense to put the largest and fastest protection paladin at the front; her shield is almost the same size as some of the smaller sin’dorei and everybody knows a tauren at full speed becomes a veritable battering ram. She knows it’s a matter of tactics, and the commander is just making use of his resources, but she can’t help but feel elated to be chosen.

He cups his hands around his mouth to shout. “Fall in!”

They’re the second unit up the winding path to the ridge where the Horde’s first fleet has dug in their front line. Once they hit the plateau their support team breaks off to relieve the nearest healing circle, the shamans in their ghost wolf form shifting back to surround their charges as they become the sole defensive line as the Blood Knights march on.

From her left, the unit commander points towards a pocket of Horde soldiers fighting back to back against a swarm of felstakers. “There!”

The unit fans out to engage the enemy line and Galweigh dashes ahead, her hooves thundering over the rocky fel-pitted ground as she closes in. As she draws nearer Galweigh loosens the strap on the back of her shield and -- in a move that only practice could make perfect -- she changes her grip to hold it from the edge rather than the back. With a quick prayer to An’she the shield infuses with Light and begins to glow. Galweigh twists her upper body and heaves the shield into the pack of demons. It connects with the nearest creature and ricochets in a perfect arc before returning to her as a streak of golden Light; she catches it by the back strap as it goes sailing by and has it secured to her arm before she bowls into a stunned demon, crushing it beneath her hooves.

“Blood and thunder, it’s good to see you!” shouts a haggard looking orc as he uses the flat of one axe to deflect the stinking jaws of a felstalker while his other one whips up to hack into the beast’s neck. 

Galweigh grins at him and calls on An’she to consecrate the foul ground beneath her, pushing the demons back a few steps. They hiss and growl and snap their jaws, but none are brave enough to come back at them while the Light remains. “You think we’d let you have all the fun?” 

Her breath catches for a moment as the warm feeling of the Light channels through her to radiate out to the beleaguered warriors around her as a holy paladin runs by with a casual salute. Galweigh lifts her shield in thanks before turning back to the three orcs and a tauren catching their breaths. “I can cover you back to the nearest healer.”

The grey-furred bull snorts and tosses his head as he re-adjusts his grip on a massive greatsword. “Just needed a breather. We’ve got your back, Sunwalker.” 

“As you wish.” She stomps one hoof to refresh her consecrated ground and thrusts her sword up towards the dark sky to infuse her blade with Light. “Stay close.” And she charges towards the nearest demon, her sword gleaming with holy energy as it carves a path of retribution through the Legion’s forces.

\--

> _ While the right eye shone down upon the golden dawn, the Earthmother's gentle hands spread out across the golden plains. Wherever the shadow of her arms passed, a noble people arose from the rich soil. The Shu'halo arose to give thanks and prayer to their loving mother. There, in the endless fields of dawn, the children of the earth swore themselves to her grace and vowed to bless her name until the final darkening of the world. _

 

It’s a little fanciful (and arrogant) to say the arrival of a regiment of paladins causes the weather to change, but the dark, rainy skies do begin to clear a little. Sunlight dapples through the heavy cloud cover and brings a renewed sense of hope to brave men and women fighting the Burning Legion’s endless demon army. The Horde’s vanguard has become a robust front line as the influx of fresh soldiers strengthens their position. Most of the flagging First Fleet have been sent back to the support lines for much needed healing and rest, and the Legion’s forces on the plateau are forced into a stalemate thanks to the relentless efforts of the blastmasters and battle riders targeting the enemy’s portal summoners.

Galweigh stands in a warm beam of An’she’s Light that pierces through the clouds, her shield quick and her sword arm strong. She and Cerestes, the small sin’dorei from her unit, have reunited and the two of them have spent their time venturing into the demon army’s front line to rescue their trapped comrades. The look of gratitude on weary faces renews their spirit, giving them the power to push on despite the overwhelming odds. The sin’dorei’s unending energy and determination is commendable; despite their physical differences she’s been able to keep up to Galweigh’s punishing pace, and wields her huge two-handed sword like it’s an extension of her body. They work well together.

Her companion points towards the ridge line where the Forsaken’s Dark Rangers continue to fight with their unflagging strength alongside the Banshee Queen. “Let’s head that way, see if we can get a better view.” 

Galweigh wants to head towards Baine Bloodhoof for the childish thrill of fighting alongside the High Chieftain, but he’s clear across the battlefield with a large contingent of the Second Fleet surrounding him so Cerestes’ suggestion is better. “Alright.”

“It’s good to feel the sun,” Galweigh comments as they jog over the uneven ground, a feat of strength in itself considering the weight of their armour.

Cerestes hums in agreement as she dodges a furrow in the ground. “You lot do seem to enjoy the sun.”

“Well, yeah.” Galweigh gave the blood elf a wry look. “Sunwalkers isn’t just a catchy name for us.” A hint of smile is visible behind the curve of Cerestes face plate, and Galweigh realizes the stoic little paladin is teasing her. She laughs and shakes her head. “I didn’t think you lot made jokes.”

“Sin’dorei are very, very serious,” she deadpans, slowing as the reach the edge of the ridge where a line of archers fire tirelessly into the fray. “I wonder how the Warchief fares.”

Curiosity burns in Galweigh’s belly and she darts forward. “Let’s have a look.”

\--

Her elation at seeing the mighty strength of the Horde’s forces below falters when Cerestes gasps next to her and points. 

“Do you see that?” 

Galweigh squints to see what the sin’dorei’s sharp vision has spotted. “What?”

“There, over the fel pool under that outcropping. It’s the Highlord.” 

She can barely make out the small form of the legendary leader of the Argent Crusade dangling as he’s suspended by sickly ropes of fel magic. Across the murky pool stands the Alliance, though all she can see from here is their bright banners and the gleam of sunlight off armour. And up on the cliffs above stands a dark, hunched shape.

Cerestes breathes a foul curse. “Gul’dan. I didn’t think that bastard survived the pillage of Hellfire Citadel.”

“Where you there?” Galweigh looks away longer enough from the tense standoff below to see a grim look on her companion’s face.

“I was part of the raid against the Iron Horde’s leadership.”

“Really?” Galweigh blinks in surprise. “Then why aren’t you down there, with the Warchief, instead of pulling the second string up here with me?” She points down at the unmistakable form of a large grey bear standing between the Warchief and the edge of the pool. “With the heroes like Stonespire.”

Cerestes casts her a stern look, her mouth pinched with irritation. “Lady Liadrin was not wrong, Sunwalker. The front line needed us more than the Warchief. There is no glory in war, only honour in lending your strength where it’s needed most. You’d best learn that while you’re still young enough to make the most of it.”

Humbled, Galweigh turns back to the tableau below. “I bow to your wisdom, Blood Knight. My apologies.”

The blood elf ignores her response in favour of returning her attention to the stand-off with Gul’dan. Bubbles begin to form in the fel below Tirion Fordring, and within moments it’s become a roiling boil. “Something’s happening.”

Galweigh’s heart begins to race. Although human, the Highlord of the Argent Crusade is a man of honour and faith, resolute in his stance of neutrality in the never-ending conflict between the Horde and Alliance. She’s only met him a handful of times, but his leadership and guidance has inspired so many to victory against adversity. 

“He’s going to be fine.” She says with more confidence than she feels. “He’s the Light’s Champion. I mean, Icecrown Citadel? The Scarlet Enclave? Battle for Light’s Hope Chapel? Surely this doesn’t compare.”

Something begins to emerge from the agitated fel and Galweigh realizes it’s not just murky water. A massive clawed hand reaches up and sinks into the rocky outcropping as a demon hauls itself through a portal beneath the surface. Its hulking upper body towers over Azeroth’s forces and the creature roars.

“By the Light,” Cerestes gasps. “Gul’dan is pulling a Doom Lord through. I didn’t think that was possible.” The demon writhes in place as it struggles against unseen bonds. “It can’t move. The portal must not be completely open.”

Hope still flutters in her chest at the news. “If it can’t move, we still have the advantage. Maybe if we find the sources of the summoning we can --”

The monstrous doom lord opens its mouth and breathes malevolent fel at the struggling paladin, and Sunwalker and Blood Knight alike stand in stunned silence as the Light screams within them. The flutter of hope dies.

Galweigh breaks the silence with a whisper. “The Highlord is dead.”


	7. The Broken Shore, Coal Ridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauren Enhancement shaman

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**The Broken Shore, Coal Ridge**

The steady reassuring hum of the elemental earth beneath his hooves is all that’s keeping Hruune Skychaser standing. His muscles ache, his eyes and throat burn from the foul air, and sheer stubbornness is keeping the grip on his weapons true. He stands at the very edge of the northern-most healing circle, tucked between the crumbling marble of a ruined temple and a volcanic black rock outcropping that shields them partially from view. He and a half dozen other Earthwatchers are guarding the healers as they work tirelessly to keep the Horde fighting, but more and more soldiers flood into the crude hospital as the battle below rages on. Hruune has already tapped himself of energy countless times in a token effort to aid the flagging healers.

Gravel crunches beneath shuffling feet and Hruune is immediately on high alert, his war-axes held ready and a trio of totems quivering in anticipation of the enemy. He hushes the eager little elemental spirits to keep them calm, and charges his right-hand axe with licks of flame while the left vibrates with the wind’s fury. He crouches low, preparing to charge into whatever slavering demon has found its way up to their sanctuary, and lets out a low curse when he sees the hunched, awkward gait of a Forsaken. Hruune drops his axes to his sides and straightens up again.

“I nearly took your head off, friend.” He calls out and waves the figure towards the hidden entrance. “Over here.”

The figure wears dusty priest’s vestments and a lopsided headpiece; it’s using a long staff coated in jagged shards of silver crystals as a walking stick to traverse the uneven ground. As it gets closer Hruune can see the priest is male and doesn’t appear as… incomplete as some of the other Forsaken. His face is gaunt and pale, but not grotesque or filled in with patchworked flesh like some others. He stops when he spots Hruune and… waves happily?

“Finally! I’ve been searching for a circle for ages.” His voice is dry but the priest almost sounds cheerful compared to other Forsaken Hruune’s met over the years.

“Are you injured?” Hruune gestures him towards the narrow passage between two shattered marble columns. “We’ve got a few supplies left.”

The priest shakes his head and hobbles quickly towards the entrance. “No, I’m fine. Plenty of mana. I want to lend a hand. I got separated from my unit so I figured it would be best for me to find something to heal.”

“A fresh healer will be warmly welcomed. My name is Hruune.”

“I am called Grimvayne.”

“Well met, Grimvayne. Come, I’ll show you the way. The path is a little tricky.”

“I appreciate it. I’m bound to fall into a crevasse and die.” The priest lets out a dry little laugh and thumps his staff against the ground. 

Hruune leads the way down the winding path towards the shallow depression where the triage is set up. “What unit were you part of?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Grimvayne shuffles along behind him, probing the loose stones with his staff. “I was with some warlocks who were trying to destroy Gul’dan’s summoning focuses. They got most of them, but not until he summoned that doom lord through. Well, half a doom lord.” He cackles a little to himself. “Bet he wasn’t expecting that to happen!”

“Doom lord? Gul’dan is here? Like the horrible warlock?” Hruune stops in his tracks and turns to face the priest, who runs into him.

“Oof! Apologies, I don’t see well in the dark.” He gets his feet under him again and nods. Hruune can see well enough in the low light, and notices the priest’s headpiece bobbling over his forehead. “Yes, Gul’dan is up at the Tomb. The doom lord was a bit of a surprise I think, but luckily the combination of the Warchief’s forces and the Alliance army were enough to keep it distracted until we found more of the altars. Once there weren’t enough of Gul’dan’s lackeys propping up his portal, it failed and sucked that doom lord back into the twisting nether.”

“Wow, I had no idea. We’ve been up here since the Second Fleet landed, so we only learn of the battle second hand.” Hruune turns back to head down the path again. “We’re not far.” 

Hruune sees the priest to the rest of the circle where he immediately jumps in to lend a hand, channeling the Light through his staff in rippling circles that wash over the crowded pallets and stretchers cluttered around the space. He gives Hruune another enthusiastic wave when the shaman heads back up to his guard position, and Hruune can’t help but wave back.

\---

The next time Hruune heads down into the triage area, he’s helping a grey-furred bull with a bad leg wound and blood soaking the left side of his head. Under his Horde tabard he wears the unmistakable armour of a Thunder Bluff Brave.

“You must have landed in the First Fleet.” Hruune asks as he shoulders as much of the large male’s weight as he can. “Have you been at the front all day?”

The bull grunts in pain and pants out a response. “Yeah. Would have fallen back a lot sooner, but I stuck with a couple paladins for awhile. They make ya feel pretty good out in the thick of it.”

“The Light is a powerful force, Warbrave…?”

“Waga.” He grunts. “Waga Cliffwalker.”

“Hruune Skychaser. The Earthen Ring is grateful for your efforts here today, Warbrave.”

The bull grimaces. “You should save that gratitude until we’re off this wretched island, shaman. We’re far from winning.”

“I heard about the doom lord, and Gul’dan,” Hruune says grimly. “Has it gotten worse?”

“Definitely hasn’t gotten any better. The rest of the Second Fleet joined us up on the ridge, but the Legion has dug their heels in strong. Every demon that falls seems to be replaced by two more, and we just can’t keep up.” The grey-furred bull looks grim. “Victory is still far from our grasp.”

Hruune leads him to the nearest free pallet and fetches the exhausted warrior a waterskin and some rations. “A healer will be over shortly, friend. Walk with the Earth Mother.”

“Ancestors guide you, shaman.”

\--

“Shaman! I need a hand!” an anxious voice calls Hruune from his post, and he rushes forward to help a young female tauren awkwardly carrying a limp orc. Her robes are filthy and she looks exhausted beneath the worry clearly etched onto her face.

Hruune takes the barely conscious orc from her, his back muscles straining from the weight of the solid woman’s plate armour. “I’ve got her. Come on.”

The tauren is young, maybe even a decade his junior, but the look on her face makes Hruune feel much older. It’s clear she hasn’t seen much battle before today. The sigil on her robe sleeve marks her as a priest, but she lacks a staff; the orc is also unarmed, so she may have left their belongings behind to carry her friend.

“What news of the front?” Hruune is anxious to know how the battle is going. The restlessness of the elements has caused a growing sense of foreboding amongst the other Earthwatchers; two of them left earlier to bring back more information, but neither has returned. Hruune has a sinking feeling he may never see Bo or Izsha again.

The priest struggles over the loose stone path and eventually puts her hand against his back to aid her balance. Her voice is hoarse with exhaustion. “The Legion’s portal keepers reinforced their positions and felbats fill the sky, keeping our aerial support occupied. The blastmasters have already had to fall back to a secondary position, which means their out of range of at least two garrisons.”

Hruune is impressed with her knowledge of the battle. “You must have been right in the thick of it to know all this.”

She gives a tired nod. “I arrived this morning with the vanguard. Clari and I were tasked with getting the injured back to safety.”

“This is Clari?” Hruune nods to the orc stubbornly holding onto consciousness in his arms.

“Yes. She’s kept me alive since we landed on the beach.” The priest’s voice sounds thick with tears. “I… I’m so tired, I can’t heal her. I’m a failure.”

“Seer,” Hruune softens his voice. “What’s your name, young one?”

She sniffles a little and dashes at tears. “Loxe.”

“Loxe. You haven’t failed your friend. You have done so much good today, sister. You kept so many people safe, and you saved Clari by bringing her here. Let someone else ease your burdens, hmm? I won’t let her die.”

“T-thanks.” She clears her throat. “Sorry, I just… it’s been a really hard day.”

“Never apologize for feeling overwhelmed, Loxe.” 

They turn the corner to the triage area and Hruune finds a makeshift bunk next to a healing stream totem. He lowers the brave orc to the ground gently and makes space for her friend to sit next to her. Clari’s eyes flutter open in a panic and she tries to sit up; Hruune just plants his huge hand against her chestplate to keep her in place and gives her a friendly smile.

“Rest now, brave protector. Your charge is safe. Loxe is right here.” 

The orc leans back against the bundle of furs beneath her as the priest rests her hand against the smaller woman’s arm. Hruune presses his own hand to the ground next to them and summons a weak healing circle beneath them. 

“It’s not much,” he admits. “I’ve no talent with the gentler elements. But it should help bolster the power of the nearby totems.”

Loxe already looks calmer when she reaches over to squeeze his hand. “Thank you. I feel much better.”

He squeezes her hand back. “You’re welcome.”

\----

Hrunne discovers the Horde’s front line has broken when the trickle of injured soldiers coming to the healing circle becomes a flood. He and his comrade Khaosti, a female troll, carry a hulking orc battle rider down the path together as the man lets out great, heaving ugly sobs. His leg is shattered and half of his left side has been scorched from fel fire, but it’s clear the physical pain of his injuries isn’t greater than his sorrow over losing his beloved wyvern. Khaosti presses her hand to his chest and sends a wave of healing calm through him, and he’s able to speak more clearly. The orc tells them how the Horde’s forces are now just pockets of resistance under the relentless assault of the Legions’ replicating army. 

Once they’ve seen to his comfort, Hruune and Khaosti rush back up to the ridge and continue further up the rocks to get a better vantage of the battlefield below. They need to know if the circle is in danger of being found, so they can evacuate. Khaosti is much more nimble over the stony ground and she makes it up onto the ridge quicker, crouching low to avoid being spotted while she waits for him to join her. Hruune hauls himself up with his head ducked low, and gasps at the sight below.

There are demons everywhere.

Off in the distance he sees the malevolent shimmer of Legion transport portals opening one after another, and demons of every shape and size march out. The sky is black with felbats and the elements tremble with unease beneath the stone. He grips his hands tight against the sharp rocks just to feel something other than shocked horror.

Khaosti points at something below. “Look!”

The Banshee Queen rides low over the back of a skeletal steed as she plows through a pack of snarling dreadstalkers, pausing to lean precariously off to one side. When she sits up she’s got  _ the Warchief _ draped across her lap, and her steed streaks for the patch of high ground where High Chieftain Bloodhoof and his remaining Braves barely hold their position. A massive snarling grey bear stands between him and a trio of fel lords as they stubbornly dig their heels in.

A chilling sound echoes up from the battlefield; from the back of her charging mount, Sylvanas is blowing a war horn with an unfamiliar tune and the eerie music seems louder than any natural noise. Moments later the sky lightens as the felbats screech and scatter from the glowing, ethereal bodies emerging from the clouds.

“What is dat?” Khaosti gasps.

A shiver runs down Hruune’s spine. “Val’kyr. She’s calling down val’kyr.” He knows these are creatures of the Light, but he’s more familiar with the corrupted ones that acted as servants of the Lich King in Northrend. Two of the figures swoop down towards Baine and Thrall, hooking their golden arms around them to lift them to safety as half a dozen others appear to sweep over the battlefield to retrieve the Horde’s fallen. The Legion forces pulse with fury and the demons’ front line surges forward in the val’kyrs’ wake. 

Hruune pushes off from his perch and slides down the rocky outcropping on his flank. “Come on, we’ve got to sound the evacuation. The Horde is retreating.”


	8. Pandaria, the steps of Mogu’shan Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauren Brewmaster monk

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**Pandaria, the steps of Mogu’shan Palace**

Monks of all race and discipline gather on the wide stone balcony of the once grand palace; this is neutral ground, located part way between the Horde-favoured Shrine of Two Moons and the Alliance’s Shrine of Seven Stars. The ruined palace grounds are a sobering reminder of their incessant war, and the dangerous consequences of their decades-long squabble. Garrosh Hellscream fell prey to the whispers of the Old Gods, his desire for the power the protect his people twisted by their malevolent promises until he was nothing but their vessel for chaos. Conflict brought destruction to this land, and only their cooperation now will rebuild it.

Despite the cooling hostilities between them, the monks loyal to either faction stand apart from each other while they wait for transport portals to the Broken Shore. Little information about the assault against the Legion has trickled down to the common soldier, but judging by the tense faces of their respective leadership the situation is grim. All they know is they will be forming a third round of reinforcements for the ongoing battle. 

Aelidh Hawkwind shifts her weight from hoof to hoof, but otherwise appears calm to casual observation. Only those familiar with her would recognize the tight grip on her staff as nerves and the firm line of her shoulders as impatience. Judging by the hush of tense silence hanging over the crowd, she’s not the only one.

\--

The day had started as any other; rising with the dawn for meditation, taking care of her chores, then greeting her small group of students on the training grounds. They had been half way through their third set of katas when Master Stone Fist waved her away for a private conversation. Aelidh assigned her most senior student to continue the group drills and joined the grizzled pandaren under a blossom tree. His usually jovial tone was serious and grim when he told her of the Legion’s invasion at the Broken Shore and the request for assistance from both Horde and Alliance; he tasked her with selecting her most capable students, ones most ready for the harsh realities of war, and to have everyone ready for travel within the hour.

Though Aelidh is proud of her students, she also knew many of them were not ready. She is a recent addition to the teaching staff herself, so her students are mostly young and inexperienced aside from a few who -- like herself -- had found the monk lifestyle as adults and were veterans of conflict. Linaera and Kitamsin, former soldiers in the Horde’s army, were the only ones who joined her at the meeting point where others already milled nervously. They all bowed to Master Stone Fist and the pair of Shado-Pan disciples shrouded in their distinctive red scarves before mounting up to ride for the Vale.

\--

Aelidh is lost in thought when someone gently touches the back of her elbow and narrowly avoids the tauren’s reflexive jerk back. She spins around to apologize and is met by Kitamsin’s chagrined look.

“Apologies, Instructor. I called your name but you weren’t listening.” The orc gives her a concerned look. “Are you alright?”

Though much smaller than her, the female orc has at least a decade on Aelidh and much more combat experience. She joined the Tian Monastery after the Darkspear Rebellion and is one of Aelidh’s most promising students. Her presence is surprisingly calming considering orcs natural propensity to aggression.

“Ah,” Aelidh shrugs one shoulder and offers a wan smile. “I don’t know if it’s possible to be okay right now. I mean… the Burning Legion?”

Kitamsin squeezes her arm firmly. “Azeroth has defeated the Legion before. And we’ll do it again. Have faith in your fellows and trust yourself.” The orc gives her a wry smile. “Sometimes I forget that you’re so young because you’re a very good teacher. But I’ve noticed that with many of your people.”

“Most of us had to grow up fast,” Aelidh admits. “I barely remember what life was like before the tribes united in Mulgore because I was very young. Surely the same could be said of orcs though?”

“Orcs are…” Kitamsin frowns thoughtfully. “Different. Conflict is part of our culture.”

Aelidh chuckles. “Ours too, but it’s never our first choice.”

“Which is why you make excellent monks.”

Murmurs ripple through the gathered monks and the tension lingering over everyone rises sharply. Kitamsin’s gaze sharpens and she gestures to something behind Aelidh with her chin. The tauren turns around to face the disturbance.

A paladin in battle colours and heavy plate armour has appeared on the palace steps with a gnome mage still gripping his arm. It’s clear they’ve just teleported into the Shrine. Both of them are filthy and look exhausted, and the grave looks on their faces cause stunned silence to ripple through the crowd. The human grunts when he tries to straighten up, lifting his arm from his middle briefly to look down at the grievous wound; a nearby mistweaver darts forward to surround them both with soothing green mist. 

After a moment, the paladin nods his thanks to the small pandaren woman and stands tall to address the crowd. His voice carries easily over the nervous crowd, and his sorrow is apparent in his tone. “The High King has fallen.”


	9. Northrend, Warsong Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauren Beast Mastery hunter

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**Northrend, Warsong Hold**

Mandig Thunderhorn stands on the crowded loading platform with the rest of his unit -- waiting for the distant airship to dock -- and wishes for the umpteenth time that the lower floor wasn’t packed to the rafters with other soldiers. Icy wind moans through the huge opening in the side of the building and he turns away to avoid a face full of gritty snow. Warsong Hold’s zeppelin dock is designed to protect airships from the worst of Borean Tundra’s weather when they’re in berth, but the loading platform is exposed to wind off the frigid ocean when it blows easterly. Even equipped with fur-trimmed armour and warm cloaks it’s a miserable place to wait for a lift.

“Cap’n,” one of his men grumbles behind him. “Sure we can’t wait inside? My balls are going to freeze off.”

Mandig turns to give the cheeky goblin scout a half-hearted glare. “Should have put on an extra pair of woolies, Kravis.” 

“Just cuddle up nice with your pal, Flint.” A blood elf wrapped in a thick woolen scarf quips, gesturing to the goblin’s favoured shale spider companion. The creature’s rock-like carapace is covered in a thin layer of hoarfrost, but it doesn’t seem to mind the cold. “Just don’t lick him, or your tongue will get stuck.”

“Shaddup, Braeine.” The goblin grumbles, flipping her off despite his thick gloves.

“Both of you shut up,” Mandig sighs and pulls the hem of his hood closer to his face. “We’re boarding soon anyway.” The massive black-maned lion curled around his legs pushes his face against his hip until Mandig drops a hand to rub the beast’s muzzle. “And hey, I know we screw around a lot up here in this frozen wasteland we call home, but maybe act like proper Horde soldiers while we’re with other units at the Broken Shore? I’d appreciate it if you lot didn’t make me look like an asshole in front of other officers.”

The motley collection of scouts, trackers, and rangers around him all talk at once, but he gets the gist of their sentiment. It’s a small unit of a dozen or so, but they’re the best advance team in the Horde Expeditionary Force. Aside from a two-year sojourn to Draenor for the Iron Horde campaign, they’ve spent the better part of a decade keeping the rest of Azeroth safe from the Scourge. They scouted and mapped most of Northrend’s most dangerous regions during the campaign against the Lich King, and their ongoing assignment has been a wildly successful contribution to keeping the Lich King’s remaining forces under control. And despite their rowdy attitudes, Mandig couldn’t be prouder of his team.

The muted _whump-whump-whump_ of a zeppelin’s propellers can barely be heard over the wind, but the flood lights mounted on _The_ _Mighty Wind_ cut through the snowy grey sky to highlight the brightly painted balloon, a shark’s face in a rictus grin. Mandig hasn’t been more happy or nervous to see the damn airship. Happy because they’ll get out of the cold (even he’s starting to freeze his own balls off out here on deck), but nervous for the task ahead.

“Captain.” Braeine’s quiet voice is suddenly right behind him, and he turns towards her. “You mentioned we’re heading to the Broken Shore as reinforcements.” Her expression is unusually serious for the snarky, quick-witted blood elf. Even her frost-tipped eyebrows are curved with worry.  “Probably means the battle isn’t going too well, huh?”

The letter tucked under his hauberk contains little information other than a summons for his team to convene at Warsong Hold immediately for pick-up. He only has the crudest idea of the coordinates they’re heading towards, having mostly travelled via airship north rather than by sea. Mandig sighs and nods gravely; he hasn’t earned these peoples’ trust by keeping them in the dark. “Probably not. I don’t know anything more than what I’ve already told you, but my instincts are screaming.”

Just east of the hold the airship’s engines grind as they’re thrown into reverse to slow the craft for docking. Mandig clasps his hand against Braeine’s shoulder and offers her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “We’ve been through some tough shit, all of us, and still come out the other side. We just have to do what we do best, and trust in each other.”

She nods and returns his smile, albeit a little brittle around the edges. “Fuck the Legion, eh?”

He chuckles and nods. “Yeah, fuck the Legion.”

As the sounds of the zeppelin’s crew preparing for docking becomes audible, Mandig looks around the boarding platform to do a headcount. Braeine, Kravis, Jirtlu, Shoki, Dix, Mishana, Feh’gar, Paerin, Dih’di…

“Anyone seen Hawke?” Mandig frowns and checks again, even though he’d never miss spotting Hawke in a crowd so small. Aki, the other hunter’s companion, is perched on a railing grooming his wings so he couldn’t be far.

“Lost your own husband, eh?” Kravis cackles with laughter and shoulders his pack. “Some tracker you are, Cap’n!”

Mandig swipes carelessly at the goblin’s head and pushes through the group towards the ramp where another two units wait to board with them. “Can it, Kravis. Don’t let that airship leave without me. ” He whistles sharply at his cat and points to Braeine. “Pitch, go with Braeine.”

He’s halfway down the ramp when he spots Hawke coming up, holding his pack up above the heads of the crowd. Mandig catches the worried look on his husband’s face and immediately feels dread curl in his belly. Out of all of them, Hawke is the steady one. He’s cool and calm under pressure, and takes everything in stride.  _ Everything _ . To see him look upset could only mean terrible news.

“What is it?” Mandig asks as soon as Hawke gets close enough that he doesn’t have to shout over people. 

Hawke pulls a crumpled missive from his cloak and hands it over, sidestepping a snoozing orc to reach Mandig’s side. “Bor’gorok was looking for you.”

A note from Warsong Hold’s overlord at a time like this couldn’t be good news. The piercing wail of an airship deck whistle signals boarding has begun, and Mandig nods towards the deck. “I’ll read it in a second, let’s get onboard before we get stuck up on deck for the trip.”

Mandig breaks trail through the loitering soldiers, his massive frame standing head and shoulders above most as Hawke sticks close behind. When the reach the deck Hawke’s brown eagle Aki squawks his displeasure at being left behind and flaps his huge wings at them before hopping off the railing to perch on Hawke’s pack. Hawke sighs and ducks his head to the side when Aki tries to pluck at his ear, muttering curses to the cranky bird.

Someone was thoughtful enough to take Mandig’s bags below deck with them and Pitch must have listened, because the black lion is nowhere to be seen. He’s made the trip back and forth to Orgrimmar enough that the cat knows the best places to curl up below decks to avoid the wind and snow. They make it all the way down into the belly of the airship before Hawke nudges Mandig’s side as they both duck under beams.

“What’s it say?” When Mandig gives him a curious look, Hawke nods to the crumpled note in his hand. “The letter from Bor’gorok, idiot.”

“Oh.” Mandig moves out of the stairwell to join the rest of their unit and carefully unseals the letter, cracking the official wax seal of the Horde command. Which means the missive isn’t from Bor’gorok himself, but from someone much higher up. “It’s probably just our orders.”

The letter is brief, but devastating. He reads it twice because he can’t believe his eyes. “Our forces had to retreat and the Warchief has been mortally wounded.”


	10. Shadowmoon Burial Grounds, Draenor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauren Blood death knight

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**Shadowmoon Burial Grounds, Draenor**

Under heavy clouds the colour of a fresh bruise, a heavily-cloaked figure emerges from the smouldering remains of an ancient crypt and strides down the well-worn stone steps of an empty fortress once revered as Anguish Hold. Now little remains of the treacherous Shadowmoon Clan and their power-hungry leader, Nerz’ghul; it’s hard to believe less than a year ago the place was swarming with orcs allied to the Iron Horde, replaced by haunting spirits and uneasy skeletons seeking their rest. Most of the surrounding structures have been razed and pillaged for their supplies, but crates of jerky and bandages aren’t the reason the Highlord still sends his champions to scour the area. He’s hoping for information _ this _ Nerz’ghul may have had in common with Azeroth’s own. So far it’s been little more than a fool’s errand.

The figure reaches the bottom of the wide staircase and draws a heavy, two-handed axe out from under its cloak. The weapon is made from pitted dark metal with the oily sheen of death magic glistening over the surface. Runes etched along the blade flare -- blood red, icy blue, sickly green -- and the figure slashes the axe through the air in three confident strokes as the wind picks up and flutters the edges of their cloak. It’s not a natural wind, carrying the whispers of the Void and the smell of cold, damp stone. One final swing down and a portal begins to open. 

It isn’t the crackling electric blue of an arcane portal, rather a swirl of purple, green, and black as it stretches large enough for someone to walk through it. A Death Gate, they call it, for only the fallen warriors called death knights can pass through it without harm. The unnatural magics used by the Scourge to reanimate their bodies protect them from the unliving Void as they step between realites to end up back in the only place they dare call home.

 

**Acherus: The Ebon Hold, Eastern Plaguelands**

The death knight steps through her gate and is overwhelmed by a wall of sound. The hollow husk of Anguish Hold had been silent as a grave, but Acherus is rarely quiet. She draws in a breath to steady herself and lets the gate close behind her as a unit of initiates marches by and a pair of ghouls stack supply crates against the wall. Though few would call a former Scourge necropolis welcoming, it’s good to be home.

“Shadowkith. Good.” 

She turns to greet the familiar voice behind her, a female blood elf in training armour. Shadowkith nods in greeting as she pushes her heavy cloak back off her head. “Ess.” She looks around at the unusually busy top floor of the Hold. “Full house.”

Ess nods and her icy blue gaze flicks over the group of knights sparring in the pit. “Yes. The Highlord requested everyone return if they were able.” She nods towards the teleporter pad. “He wants to speak with you.”

A flicker of annoyance -- dulled by her muted emotions -- but Shadowkith follows her colleague. “If he thinks I’m going to tromp around in those damn ruins for another week, I’ll tell the geists they can use his quarters the next time they need to stitch each other up.” 

The lowest-ranking of the former Lich King’s creatures, geists were the most poorly preserved of the undead. Most of them had been criminals put to death, their bodies warped by necrotic energy to turn them into hideous, crawling gangrel creatures used for hard labour and guard duty. Since regaining some semblance of control from the Lich King, many of them served the Ebon Blade loyally. Still creepy though.

“Cruel.” A hint of humour in Ess’ cool voice and her eyebrow flickers in amusement as they cross the crowded training platforms. She pauses briefly to grab a tabard, pulling it on over her truncated armor before they take the teleporter down to the Highlord’s command table.

\--

The lower floor is nearly as full as the rest of the Hold, but much quieter. Disciples roam the library, stacking books and sorting scrolls, others hunch over tables in tireless research. The centre of the room is occupied by a raised dais where the Highlord and most of his advisors are bent over the large map table. Ess leaves to speak with the archivist while Shadowkith walks up to join the others.

Darion Mograine was a man of average size in life, but in death his presence is so much larger. Partially because of the heavy armour they all favour, but mostly because of the sheer power of will that surrounds him at all times. Though he stands at the table amongst larger knights, it’s still clear that he is in charge. He looks up and nods at Shadowkith.

“Welcome back. Did you find anything?”

She moves in next to Thassarian, a hulking human knight, and shakes her head. “We missed nothing in our earlier attempts.” 

Darion hums noncommittally and turns his attention back to the sheafs of maps on the table. She doesn’t recognize them from this angle but she hopes he hasn’t found some new location to send people on pointless errands.

“Further missions to Draenor will be fruitless,” she adds, a hard edge to her voice. “We have already discovered everything that place had to offer us for answers, Highlord.”

Thassarian interrupts before they get into another argument; she and Darion are too alike sometimes, and their personality clashes are legendary. “Draenor is irrelevant right now.” He reaches for a parchment with the remains of a broken wax seal and hands it to her. “The Burning Legion has returned.”

A ripple of shock passes through her as she reads the missive from the Alliance’s 7th Legion, detailing the grim circumstances of their assault on the Broken Shores and the desperate request for reinforcements. 

“Must be dire if they’re asking for our help,” she murmurs.

“The Horde sent a missive as well.” Thassarian gestures to a similar letter on the table.

“I see.” Shadowkith leans closer to the unfamiliar map on the table. “The Broken Shore. Never heard of it.”

The Highlord pushes himself up from his repose over the table and rests his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Best get familiar with it quickly then. We leave within the hour.”

She bows her head and thumps her fist against her chest in a salute. “Of course, Highlord.”

\---

The wide stone balcony of the Hold is full of silent knights as the Arch-Lich Amal’thazad works on a massive spell. When he was living, Amal’thazad had been an accomplished mage, but as a lich his immeasureable power is awe-inspiring. Watching him weave the dangerous threads of death magic just a few feet away, Shadowkith is grateful the creature has pledged his loyalty to the Ebon Blade… and she’s surely not the only one.

She feels a tug at her middle as the lich re-works the homing spell for their death gate power, reversing the coordinates to the Broken Shore. It’s something he’s been studying for awhile but the Highlord had never given him the opportunity until now. Currently Acherus is a half day’s travel away from the front lines and it would be impossible for the Knights of the Ebon Hold to join the battle without something short of a miracle. Here’s hoping Amal’thazad’s miracle doesn’t end up leaving them in the Void.

As the working reaches climax, a massive death gate begins to form on the balcony and the lich rubs his hands together with a modicum of excitement. Shadowkith is too far back to hear him but she doesn’t doubt he’s praising his own genius to anyone within earshot. She’s been on the receiving end of more than one ego-stroking diatribe from him before. The gate begins to stabilize and the first units prepare to enter when the Highlord strides out in front of them all.

“Stand down.” His voice echoes over them all, amplified by the curvature of the Hold’s dark stone walls. He holds a crumpled missive in his hand. “We are no longer needed at the Broken Shore.”

A murmur of disappointment shifts through the crowd and Amal’thazad looks down right sullen that no one will be using his gate. Darion’s cold voice is grave when he speaks over the crowd.

“The battle was lost. The Burning Legion won.”  


	11. The Vault of the Wardens, Azsuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood Elf Vengeance demon hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Maeiv's dialogue comes from a Legion cinematic from Patch 7.0.3

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**The Vault of the Wardens, Azsuna**

Huxx feels the stone around his stasis cell shudder and all he can think is he’s finally lost his mind. 

The wards used by the Wardens for their prisons are cold and hollow feeling, the magic strong enough to keep mortal bodies perfectly preserved for an eternity if necessary provided the crystal doesn’t shatter.  Of course there’s no danger of escape from within; he hasn’t moved in nearly a decade, his body still suspended in a half-coiled leap with his wings partially unfurled off his back. He’d been lunging towards one of the Wardens securing Lord Illidan’s body when another had caught him around the middle with… whatever wretched material this prison is made from. 

While the stasis keeps them physically bound, the magic isn’t strong enough to quiet the minds inside. Perhaps it happens to every creature bound in the Warden’s vaults, perhaps it’s merely a side effect of the Illidari’s innate magic resistance… regardless, it has proven to be a harsh punishment. Ten years alone with one’s thoughts is bad enough for any person -- everyone has regrets, fears, painful memories, and low moments -- but the Illidari are known for poor life choices. It’s too soon for Huxx to tell if he’s truly mad or just reeling from the forced contemplation over the darkness inside him. 

Regardless, it’s been a dull decade.

Vibrations again.

He would frown, but he can’t move his face.

Flickers of movement dash across his limited line of sight, likely just Wardens in the hallway going about their daily lives. The stone alcove he inhabits is occupied by other stasis cryals; he can see two others from his vantage point but his vision is too blurry to tell whose inside either one. He’s spent endless hours trying to imagine which of his comrades share this tiny cell, weaving fantastical tales of their imaginary exploits to occupy his mind. Somehow Lord Illidan spent ten thousand years imprisoned in stasis like this and from what Huxx could recall he seemed to be in possession of his faculties. Mostly.

Movement again from the hallway and another tremor.

This is the most excitement he’s had in ages.

The Wardens have little responsibilities to their prisoners’ welfare other than some light housekeeping, and Huxx can’t remember seeing more than one person pass by in a day let along minutes of each other. 

Something must be up.

\--

He’s so distracted by his own imagination that he fails to notice a figure entering the room until the haunting visage of a Warden’s telltale helm fills his field of vision. Though it’s difficult to see through the stasis crystal he recognizes Maiev Shadowsong immediately, her likeness burned into his brain. The leader of the Wardens wears her cloak pushed back off her pauldrons, clasped with a distinctive brooch, and the crest on her helm is particularly tall. Huxx will never forget his master’s killer. She comes up to his prison and taps her gauntled fingers -- sharp talons tipped in gold -- against the crystal like he’s a goldfish trapped in a glass bowl. Huxx would give anything to sneer at her right now.

“Illidari...”

He can hear her! The sound is muffled by the stasis crystal, but for the first time in a decade he can hear something other than the voices in his head. Huxx knows his body is entirely motionless but he swears his heart begins to race.

“I’ve spent my entire life as keeper of the wicked. For thousands of years my only solace was knowing the world is kept safe from your kind.” She trails off, her talons scratching idly down the crystal until her hand drops to her side.

Her helm turns away as she looks around the room, then her shoulders square and she turns back to face his prison. “But I would do anything to save Azeroth.” She rears back and he sees the glaive in her other hand as it comes scything towards him.

The crystal shatters and he falls to the floor in a heap. Maiev looms above him as he struggles to breathe, his body unused to functioning properly after so long in stasis. The toe of her boot presses against his chest and Huxx begins to wheeze in air. “Even if it means releasing you.” 

He has no control over his shivering, shaking body as he pants like a fish out of water. Everything hurts. His nerves are on fire, his muscles burn, even his bones ache. The sharp tip of her glaive touches against the thin skin at the hollow of his throat. “The Burning Legion has come to this world. Will you help us, demon hunter?”

“F-fu--” his voice rasps in his throat like razor wire and Maiev’s blade bites in enough to draw blood.

Her voice is harsh and the sound grates against his sensitive ears. “This isn’t about us, demon hunter. This is for Azeroth. Will you help?”

Sprawled on the floor at her feet, as shaky as a newborn deer, is no way to fight an enemy. So Huxx nods and tries to push himself up. Her boot hits him in the chest and he’s flat on his back again.

“Your word, Illidari. Our continued quarrel will not aid us against the Legion.”

He gives her a mutinous stare but manages to find his voice, rusty from disuse. “I will help.”

“Good.” The Warden takes a step back and lets him sit up. She retrieves a warglaive from a pile of weapons on the floor and tosses it at his feet. “Let your brethren out and hurry. Gul’dan has taken the Betrayer’s remains.”


	12. Booty Bay, Stranglethorn Vale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood Elf Outlaw rogue

_ “Where were you,” they always ask. “When you heard the news?” _

**Booty Bay, Stranglethorn Vale**

The bar is packed to the rafters with people doing their level best at drinking to forget. 

The last time the Salty Sailor was this full of seamen was after the Cataclysm; once the water levels had receded enough to walk the boardwalks, Skindle had thrown the storm shutters open to anyone desperate for a drink while the rest of the port city got started on rebuilding. The Sailor stayed open around the clock and anyone who’d lost their beds in the tsunami slept on any available surface (for a small fee, of course). The gruff little goblin innkeeper had groused about losing profits but it didn’t take a genius to see through his bullshit  as he and his staff bustled around the cramped tavern, keeping people fed and dry. It had been quite the community bonding experience, really, seeing all the scoundrels and lowlifes and grifters work together to fix the ramshackle infrastructure of Booty Bay. Everyone had been bummed out, but also sort of hopeful at the same time? 

That’s not how the crowd plays out tonight.

Tensions are high, nerves are shot, and there are definitely equal number of people quietly sobbing as there are raucous ones trying to pretend nothing is wrong at all. Jaecyn Starstrider’s feeling somewhere in-between; mostly numb, a little angry, and a smidge desperate. Her brain started whirring through contingency plans as soon as the news of the Legion’s invasion hit the docks that morning, but none of them were any good. She’s been sitting at a corner table with most of her crew since the afternoon and isn’t sure if she’s drunk enough to forget yet.

“What about Draenor?” she mutters, mostly into her ale.

To her left, Cedryc Silverflare pulls the most disgusted face imaginable and gives her a cold stare. “I. Would. Rather. Die.”

Jaecyn rolls her eyes at his dramatic response and pushes herself up from the table. “I need some air. Be back in a bit.” She runs her hand against the back of Brogk’s shoulders as she squeezes between the orc and the wall, and tweaks the tip of Jax’s ear on her way by. The goblin lets out an indignant squawk as she disappears into the crowd.

\--

It takes more than a few minutes to push her way all the way up to the top of the tavern, every room and corridor bursting at the seams with people. The Salty Sailor started off it’s life as a small shack and grew taller and more sprawling as business increased. At some point in its storied history, they used the entire hull of a ship as the third floor rather than breaking down the timbers; rope bridges stretch between sets of rooms built up onto either side of the hull, and hammocks hang between them for the broke and the brave. It’s still early enough in the evening that the floors beneath aren’t covered in spilled drinks and vomit from the poor bastards trying to sleep off their hangovers in a swaying hammock. Luckily Skindle knows a clean place is good business, so there’s always plenty of fresh sawdust and elbow grease for his cleaning staff.

The main balconies are occupied so she clambours up a dangling rope ladder to get up onto the tavern’s smallest outdoor space, a tiny jut of timbers affectionately called the Crow’s Nest by some and Drunk Man’s Fall by others. Jaecyn’s a little drunk, but she’s sure-footed even well into her cups, so she’s not particularly worried about falling off the building.  She shoves at the hatch and swings her leg over the sill, pulling herself out into the fresh night air.

The Nest probably started its life as a couple different ships’ lookout platforms before getting nailed onto the roof of the tavern, so at least there’s sturdy railing and it doesn’t wiggle under her weight. Jaecyn leans her elbows against the most splinter free section and draws in a lungful of cool, sea air. The evening breeze off the ocean ruffles her hair and clears the last of the day’s humid heat from the docks. Stranglethorn Vale’s wild jungles loom huge and dark just beyond the town’s lanterns, and she can hear a jaguar somewhere in the distance.

She sighs and stares out over the ocean. 

\--

A few minutes later, the peaceful silence is broken by the hatch opening again and Cedryc half-falling through it when his coat hem gets caught. He curses and tumbles out, somehow managing to keep his drink from spilling.

“Would have been easier with two hands,” she says dryly, offering him a hand.

He pops to his feet like an acrobat, as if he’d planned the tumble all along, and takes a sip of his cocktail. “Then I’d be up here without any liquor, and that doesn’t seem right at all.” Cedryc moves to stand at the section most firmly nailed to the bar’s roof and gingerly leans against the railing. “You know I need liquid courage to climb up onto this death trap.”

Jaecyn rolls her eyes at him and props both elbows against the rail. “Too much liquid courage is what made you fall off that one time.”

“Semantics.” He sips his drink again and rifles through his flamboyantly patterned coat pocket. Cedryc pulls out a shiny silver case and flips it open, plucking out a cigarillo. He snaps his fingers and a bright flame flares just long enough to light the tip, and soon fragrant smoke mingles with ocean salt. He takes a draw before holding it out. 

“Show-off.” Jaecyn takes the cigarillo from him. Smoke curls from her lips when she hands it back. 

Cedryc grins at her. “Hey, I’m no mage but I can still whip out a couple decent party tricks.” He rolls over so his back is against the railing and his weight is held up by his elbows, drink dangling from one hand as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. But Jaecyn has known him nearly her entire life and she recognizes tension between his brows.

She nudges him with her foot. “You come up here just to bug me?”

He shrugs and lifts the cigarillo to his mouth, releasing an artful swirl of smoke before answering. “Everyone else left. I’m not drunk enough to sit at a table all by myself.”

“What, everyone? Even Jax?”

“Brogk bailed the second you left, took off like his ass was on fire. Jax said he was going back to the workshop to invent bombs to kill demons.” He took another drag off the cigarillo before handing it back.

Jaecyn sighed. “Well, hopeful Kaz is around to keep him from blowing up the fucking berth.”

The workshop is a cluttered little building at the top of the rocky outcropping they used to tie off the airship’s landing lines, butted up against the warehouse they use for storage and (occasionally) sleeping if the weather forced them to land. It’s full of weird gadgets and half-fixed engine parts, and probably more explosives than Jaecyn would like. Putting two very different engineers in a single space will likely end terribly, but that’s a problem for future Jaecyn.

If there is a future Jaecyn.

Cedryc nudges her and Jaecyn jerks back to awareness; the cigarillo is half-ashed already and she takes a quick drag before handing it back. “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty.” This time he blows out concentric rings of smoke. “What’s on your mind, old friend?”

She sighs. “Same thing as you, probably. Burning Legion.”

Cedryc snorts. “What the fuck is so damn special about Azeroth that keeps those pissants coming back? I got shit to do that certainly doesn’t include dealing with demons.”

“I know, right?” she smiles faintly, then gives him a sober look. “Kinda scared though.”

Cedryc takes one last drag before dropping the cigarillo into the dregs of his cocktail, setting the glass aside. “Me too.”

Jaecyn lets out a watery little laugh. “Some brave treasure hunters we are, huh?”

“Hey, exploring ancient tombs full of crazy boobytraps and even crazier locals is a whole different thing from fighting a world-ending demon armies.” Cedryc shuffles across the deck to throw his arm around her shoulders, pulling her down for a tight hug. He’s short enough that she sort of collapses against him like a wet blanket, but his wiry body is sturdy enough to hold her weight.

She sighs and wraps her arms around her oldest friend, pressing her face against his warm neck. “Thanks, short-ass.” 

The withering sigh that escapes him makes her grin. “We were having such a lovely moment, then you had to go and  _ ruin _ it.” 

 

A flutter of wings distracts her from response as a massive raven dives down towards the small balcony, and Jaecyn moves both of them back towards the wall to avoid getting hit. “What the fuck!”

Cedryc grunts when his shoulder connects with the building and he twists out of Jaecyn’s hold, a small but viciously sharp blade already in his hand. Jaecyn’s reflexes are a little slower, but she’s equally armed by the time the raven begins to form into… a man?

A tall, robust looking human wearing archmage’s battle robes takes shape within moments. He’s vaguely familiar looking -- handsome enough, clean-shaven with neatly groomed silver hair and strong features -- but she can’t quite place him.

Before either blood elf can react, he tucks his ornate staff into the crux of his elbow and holds up his hands. “My apologies for startling you.” His Thalassian is decent, but his accent is atrocious.

“We speak Common,” Jaecyn responds flatly and she gestures at him with the tip of her blade. “What gives?”

“I’m Khadgar --”

“The arch mage of the Kirin Tor?” Cedryc snorts, his voice full of scorn. “Lookin’ to slum it with us gutter rats?” His speech has dropped its usual cultured cadence for one more commonly heard in Silvermoon’s seedier districts. Cedryc had always been prickly around ‘fancy mages’ as he called them.

The human seems to take no offense and merely nods. “Yes, but I’m not here on behalf of the Kirin Tor. I’m here on behalf of Azeroth.”

The pair of blood elves share a skeptical look. Jaecyn cocks one long eyebrow and gives a sweeping gesture over the ramshackle vista of Booty Bay. “Ah yes, this grand palace is home to many a world-saving hero.” She tucks her blade back into the hidden holster at her thigh, because even she’s not arrogant enough to believe she could take on an  _ archmage _ with a dagger. “I think you’re in the wrong place, pal.”

The corner of his mouth twitches at little at her theatrics and he gives them both a patient stare. “I’m not looking for world-saving heroes. I’ve got those. What I’m looking for now are treasure hunters.” He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his robes and leans back on his heels. “Rumour has it you’re the best.”

Jaecyn furrows her brows and frowns at the mage. “You came all the way down here… to offer us a job?”

“Yes.”

“Is this job related to the giant demon army currently invading this world?” Cedryc sneers. “Because we ain’t interested in getting our asses burned with fel fire.”

Khadgar sighs. “I’ll keep this brief. The Burning Legion has returned, our counter-offensive at the Broken Shore failed. The Alliance and Horde both lost their leaders, two men I considered friends.” His voice is coloured with sadness, but his expression remains neutral. “We have been dealt a considerable blow, but Azeroth is not yet ready to quit. My colleagues and I have a plan.” He brandishes one hand, palm up, and a shimmery portal appears above it. It focuses on the abandoned citadel of Karazhan, where the magical city of Dalaran floats above.

“Holy fel,” Jaecyn murmurs, leaning closer to see more detail. “Did Dalaran move again?”

He ignores her. “World-saving heroes, as you put it, will be summoned to Dalaran which is, yes, currently located near Medivh’s tower. Those heroes are prepared to fight the Burning Legion, but they need weapons.”

Cedryc crosses his arms and gives the mage a stern look. “What, you run out of blacksmiths and enchanters? We don’t involve ourselves in war.”

“I’m not asking you to involve yourselves in war, I’m merely asking for your assistance locating some powerful artifacts.”

Jaecyn nudges Cedryc to shut him up, as he’s clearly let his temper overpower his usually sharp business acumen. “You want us to treasure hunt for you? Fine. But we don’t come cheap.”

“You will be compensated for your efforts, I assure you.” The tall human says smoothly. “Perhaps we can arrange for some sort of per diem or --”

She shakes her head. “No deal. Five-thousand gold per artifact, and you cover expenses because airships aren’t cheap and it sounds like we’ll be burning fuel like it’s going out of style.”

“Five… for each? And expenses?” he screws his face up and crosses his arms again. “That’s a small fortune. Surely we can negotiate?”

Jaecyn mirrors his pose. “Non-negotiable.”

“Fine.” Khadgar sighs and retrieves a hefty coinpurse. “Here’s ten to start. I’ll arrange for all of our research notes and maps to be delivered to your ship by morning.”

She catches the bag and weighs it in her hands; it definitely  _ feels _ like several thousand gold. “You had this on you the whole time? Why didn’t you start with the gold?”

Khadgar smiles and grips his staff again. “I was angling for a discount. Wars are expensive, after all.” Then he taps the butt of it against the wooden deck and transforms back into the massive raven.

Jaecyn flinches as the bird’s wings almost brush her face as it takes off into the night, and turns to look at Cedryc. He’s hunched into his elaborate coat, ruining the lines of the fabric with his hands shoved into the pockets. His expression is one of grim concern.

“What?” she hooks the bag of gold through her belt loop, tying it off tightly. “You look pissed.”

“I don’t like getting involved in war.”

She hooks her arm around his shoulders and steers him towards the hatch. “You heard the bird man, we’re not involved in the war. We’re just hunting treasure.”

He sighs and watches her climb back into the tavern. “If we end up getting killed by demons, I am haunting your ass until the end of time.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Non-canon character names have been populated from my guild's roster.


End file.
